FREDA ALONE

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 126, 30 May 1934, Page 19

FREDA ALONE

Author of " Peggy, ■ - -

CHAPTER XXV.

Joy Cometh in the Morning. Someone threw a handful of tiny pebbles against Freda's win low, as the sun rose above the horizon. She was already up and dress; 1, p.riii the »vmdow was pulled down as far as it would »o. All the fear and fatigue of the night were gone like a dream. It was an exquisite morning, dry and softly grev. The sun had come up dazzling from behind a purple cloud, and the whole garden twinkled as the slight frost melted to dew drops. "Come down," some one called softly below the balcony. "Come down; I want you." As she leant from the window to answer—she was already fully dressed, for excitement had kept her from sleeping—a rose softly struck her in the breast. She caught it and turning away from the window pressed it to her lips and her cheeks and her bosom. It was thornless. Was life, which had hitherto given Freda more than her share of thorns, going to give her roses from henceforth? She wrapped herself in an old Indian shawl, which had been a gift from Maman, and stole tip-too through Lady Roseveare's bedroom. The room was dim since the window had been shuttered overnight, but she could hear the soft breathing of the child by the mother, and could see that they yet slept 011 the same pillow. A sleepy housemaid, carrying dust-pan and broom, made way for Freda as she ran downstairs with something of an aggrieved air. " 'Tain't no inf.ro than seven o'clock, hardly, miss," she said; "and there won't bo a sign of breakfast till nine or more. You fair startled me, so yoli did, miss, what with burglars and one thing or another Only the police is in the place I wouldn't dare stir out o' sight o' someone, so I wouldn't. I wonder at you, miss, so I wouldn't. 1 so early after all that's happened, too." "Never mind, Anne," Freda said, running by her lightly. "There are no nightmares nor burglars cither on such a morning as this. I'm going to look for an appetite."

"Seoms more like as she was going to meet her young man," Anne said to herself. "Not that I believe she's got one, pore thing! Bless my 'enrt I wouldn't be one of they there companions or governesses, not if it 'twas ever so, 'avin' to behave like ladies and yet not ladies in a manner o' speakin'. Give me tho 'ousemaid's life, an' walk out with, some's second footman. That's more in my line, that is."

Meanwhile Freda had unbolted a side door and stepped out into the morning. She had met no one on the way except the under-housemaid, though she heard sounds of life from the kitchen wing, and the chimneys had just begun to smoke into tho blue air. The world had the wonderful look of having been newly made in the night. She looked at it as though it were a picture, not the familiar world of every day. All the shuttered and blinded windows round the house had a suggestion of death and sleep. She felt as though she were the only one living and awake in this strange, glistening world.

"I couldn't sleep," Dampier said, coming to meet her, "and I had the design of waking you and making you come out to me. I had no idea that you would be up and dressed. What do you say to a walk before breakfast?" "I should love it. They will sleep later after last night's excitement. Her ladyship was not even stirring when I passed through her room." His face darkened over. "A strange thing that you should have been put in peril, Freda, to protect lier jewels," he said. "What tricks Fate plays us!" "It was the child," said Freda simply. "I -think I should have let the jew >ls go—perhaps. Perhaps not. I should have given the alarm, I suppose. But I dared not leave the child. I don't think it has hurt him. He seemed to be sleeping dike a lamb." "Odd, wasn't it, that I should have been the one to hear you scream ? Lord Roseveare must sleep like the dead. It was a happy chance that I came back last night and that I slept just across the corridor from your room. You didn't know I was there?"

"No; I thought you miles away. It seemed wonderful that it should be you." He turned suddenly and took her in his arms.

"I was just across the corridor," he whispered passionately. "Yet I might have been miles away if it were not for your need. . When will the time come that nothing will separate us, nothing —when we shall be always together?"

She yielded herself to his kisses. Had | not her love for him grown with her growth ? "Little Freda!" he said. "Why, I believe, even then, at Marigny, you captured my heart and held it fast. I didn't know—but—you did more for me than you knew, child. Perhaps some day I shall tell my wife. I have not cared for any woman since, though I have liked many. I often wondered at myself that I should be so cold, not realising that that poor little child of long ago liad laid her hands about my life and made it her own." She lifted her face to him and a shadow of misgiving was upon her eyes. "Dear," she said, "I oughtn't to let you. You know I am.nameless Freda. I ought to bring you at least a name." He laughed joyously. "You will have mine. But when, dearest, when? I don't know what has come to mc. I am more eager than a bov, for all my thirty odd years." She held his face away from her with her two hands.

j "You are sure?" slio asked—"sure? You would rather have me nameless than marry Lord Grandison's daughter ?" j "I would rather have you than any woman 011 earth. But —there has never been anything about Miss Agar." His voice was slightly punctilious, and she loved him for it. "Cecile is an angel, not altogether of this earth. I should never have raised my eyes to her, even if my heart had not been caught long ago."

"She likes me; I am very proud of it," Freda said. "But was there nothing at all? I could not bear that she should be hurt. There is something heavenly about her."

"Be at rest. She never thought of me. My excellent aunts hoped for some such arrangement. I never deceived them about its unlikelihood. Yet—l ought to have told you before, Freda-. You are going to marry a working ma* —an out-of-work at the present moment. The aunts have cut me ofl' with an angry shilling." "Because of mc ?" Freda said sorrowfully.

By KATHARINE TYNAN

I'lc lifted her hand to his lips.

"Because I am the happiest and most favoured fellow on earth. I won't deceive you about it, dear. The aunts, especially Georgiana, have had this plan for Cccilo Agar and myself in their minds for many years. Tliey were always urging it on me; although I told them many a time that we were 110 more than friends. At last, I've told them tho truth, and they've turned me out. Look at me! Am I a man to be pitied, Freda ?" .

He certainly did not look one. He looked happier and gayer than she ever remembered him.

"" "And you are going to be poor for me?" she said, wondering. "And is poverty so pleasant a prospect? Won't you tire of it. even with me?"

"He let her go in order to stretch his arms, as though he had the memory of shackles upon him.

"Hear," he said, "it is my manumission. I have often been so tired being the bond-slavo of these dominant old ladies. I feel free, free; and it a heavenly. I never wanted their money. It seemed tho readiest thing to my hand to do their work for them. After all I had 110 great vocation for diplomacy. I did not remind Georgiana of how she urged me to give it up. What matter about their money? If it goes to the cats and dogs well —I am very fond of animals. I might have made worse uses of it. I have three hundred a year of my own that 110 one can take from me. Do you think we can enter Paradise 011 three hundred a year?"

"Maman would have thought it a great, big sum. I suppose it would sound very big in francs. How muih is it in francs?"

He swung her off her feet delightedly, and pressed licr to him covering her face with kisses.

"We shall talk of it in francs," he said, "and consider ourselves immensely rich. You darling! How ciever of you to think of it! I can't do sums at this moment, but I take it you are not afraid of Paradise 011 ever so many thousand francs yearly."

"I am not afraid," she answered, evading his kisses. "I am so glad now that lam a good cook. Maman taught me. You'll bo surprised at. what delicious dishes I shall make you, at the tiniest cost."

"It will bo feeding on lioncy-dew and drinking tho milk of Paradise," he answered happily. "And now, I brought you out so early, my sweet, to tell you that I am going up to London after breakfast to seek my fortune." "So soon?" "The sooner the better, Delight. There are plenty of people who will help me. I don't anticipate always living on those francs, even with you in Paradise. Thero is someone I have to see, an old friend of my father's. And I shall go looking for the tiniest hotlse or flat into which- Paradise can be crammed. I can't wait even though I'm beggared of everything except Paradise. When I have found something likely ycu shall come and approve. 1 don't propose to go out on the quest for fortune without you beside me. I shall tell Vera before I go. I thnk she suspects. . She will help me —with certain details. Why should we not be married from here? The aunts will never forgive Vere; hut then she has been flouting them from the time she v.'.is liand-high." "Must you go?" cried Freda, with a woebc jiie face. "And there is all the ko-.Ti-r —about the burglar? I shall have to give evidence again. If you knew how I dread it." "I shall be. beside you before that is necessary. Do you think I am going to let the grass grow under my feet?" They strolled slowly hand in hand through the enchanted country. The frost of the night had vanished, leaving the air warm and soft. Robins were singing in all the boughs, and larks shot up from the fields as though it were May. "Strange, isn't it," he said, "that we should all converge upon this spot? Not you and I, Freda. You and I were bound to meet. Nothing 011 earth could prevent that. Even though wo turned our backs 011 each other, it would, only be to make the circle of the earth and meet at last." He was talking rapturous lovers' nonsense, which she listened to as though it had. not been said millions of times before, but was somethin"' new and wonderful. "It is not you°and I. It is those other people. Upon my word, I felt sorry for Roseveare when he heard my name. He went darkly purple. I thought he was o-oing to have a fit. He doesn't look as though ho had found the way of translessors easy, poor chap. For their sakes, if there were no other reason, I should have to go. I felt it a horrible bore for them, my stepping out of their past like a ghost. Her ladyship didn't turn a j hair. • • What S, snpertr -creature fcha- '

! "Yes," said Freda. "I'm not afraid I of her, since I've seen her with the child, i She's human, after all. I have ceased to hate Lady Eosevearc."

"You tender child," ho said, "as though you ever .hated anyone. The marvel about you, Freda, is that the things which would have warped almost any mind and any heart left you untouched. Child, you don't know how innocent your eyes arc. Yet you endured terrible things. How can you look so soft, 60 young, so unhurt?" She clung to liim, resolving that not even ho should know how much she had suffered. She had forgiven now her one unendurable wrong at the hands of Peggy Vane, the wrong which had made her as a child like'a little tiger thirsting for her enemy's blood; she had forgiven her the things she had told the unapproachable, ideaL young licro of long ago, of her own childish turpitude. What did it matter now that she told lies or truth? He loved her, only her, and she could forgive Lady Roseveare, while she looked back with a detached pity 011 the poor little wretch sobbing in the darkness and feeling with her small fingers as though she felt her enemy's throat in her. grip? Could that really have been Freda —Freda alone? Freda—who was never to be alone again in this world or any other. (To be continued daily.)